


The Last Stand

by Soledad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Orcs Are People Too, TTT scene rewrite from unusual POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9631385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: That last fight between Éomer and Uglúk, seen from Uglúk’s perspective





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bookverse fic, which means that the Uruk-hai were bred and born the natural way (or what counts as natural for Orcs anyway), instead of in mud pods. I used a great deal of original dialogue from the chapter _The Uruk-hai_ of TTT. My intention was to show basically the same events from the enemy’s point of view.
> 
> All the non-canonical Orc names are courtesy of the Barrow-downs name generator and therefore fake, of course. I just typed in names like First Guard, to get something that sounded remotely Orcish. The Orc-cake _rahdak_ – although with a different spelling – is the invention of Enros and was mentioned in her story _One Dark Night_.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**Part 1**

_So it was that they did not see the last stand, when Uglúk was overtaken and brought to bay at the very edge of Fangorn. There he was slain at last by Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Mark, who dismounted and fought him sword to sword. And over the wide fields the keen-eyed Riders hunted down the few Orcs that had escaped and still had strength to fly._

_TTT – Chapter 3: The Uruk-hai (p. 73)_

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They had been running across the green fields of the Horse-lords for what seemed eternity – ever since they had slain the great warrior from Gondor. Uglúk had grown worried as they proceeded. He did not trust the little swines of Lugbúrz, least of all that Grishnákh. He knew the other Orc would take the precious prisoners and vanish with them over the River, to Lugbúrz, to be rewarded for the valiant deeds of the fighting Uruk-hai, in which he had no part, if given a chance.

Uglúk hated and despised both the Orcs from the northern Miens and those from Lugbúrz. He was the leader of the Uruk-hai, chief servant of Saruman the Wise, proud bearer of the White Hand that gave them man-flesh to make them grow strong. He was stronger, better and smarter than those tunnel-rats. He would not allow them to betray him.

But he had to be careful. The green fields of the Horse-country were dangerous; full of well-trained warriors, the enemies of his lord. He and his troops had come out of Isengard to capture the Halflings and to bring them to the White Wizard. Alive and unspoiled – those were his orders, and it would have been easier to fulfil them without two bands of treacherous, filthy fools trying to get their greedy paws on the prize. Still, he could not afford the same swines in his back, not when they could be detected by the horsemen any time.

He already had to have some of the Northerners slain, and they had run quite a long stretch when, in the early night, the scouts came back at least. The slim moon was already falling westwards, and they had just reached the edge of a cliff that seemed to look out over a sea of pale mist. Somewhere nearby, a sound of falling water could be heard, and Uglúk knew they were near the ravine that would lead them down to the plains.

Lugdush dragged one of the small mountain-maggots before him and Uglúk glared at the puny scout in the twilight with disgust.

“Well?” he demanded. “What did you discover?”

The smaller Orc cringed in fear. Good. They _should_ fear him.

“Only a single horseman,” the scout all but squealed, “and he made off westwards. All's clear now.”

“Now, I daresay,” Uglúk snorted. “But how long? You fools!” He gave the scout a vicious kick in the ribs and heard the crunch of breaking bones with satisfaction. “You should have shot him. He'll raise the alarm. The cursed horse-breeders will hear of us by morning. Now we'll have to leg it double quick.”

He did not tell the others about the vision he kept having ever since they had captured the Halflings. That would have been revealing a weakness, and any weakness would mean a quick death by the hands of his own lads. The only thing the fighting Uruk-hai respected was strength – they were bred for it, and Uglúk himself was the result of generations of careful breeding. He was meant to be stronger, better, faster than other Orcs, even those of his own kind. He was meant to sire an even better generation, once this fight was over.

He could run day and night without sleep, without tiring. The only thing he could not shake off were those strange images in his mind – some kind of dark foreboding. ‘Twas not a bad thing altogether, as it often served to warn him of impending perils, but it could be… unsettling. Like right now, when he kept seeing that smooth, ageless face, framed by long, auburn hair, with very bright, green eyes searching for their trail tirelessly.

He knew they were hunted, and he knew that at least one of the hunters had to be an Elf. He had never seen an Elf – they and become rare in this part of Middle-earth, save from the Golden Wood, where no Uruk-hai in his right mind would set foot. At least not yet, not ere their numbers have grown great enough to overrun those cursed Elven archers who could hit the eye of a bird from a hundred steps in nighttime. Not ere Saruman had grown strong enough to crush that Elven sorceress who ruled over the woods.

But he could feel them. Not many of the Uruk-hai had this ability. They had been bred away from their roots too much for that. But a few still had, and Uglúk was one of those few.

He had felt the Elf near Rauros already. He had also recognized the Elven arrow sticking out of quite a few of his fallen lads. The thought of having an Elf on their trail gave him an uneasy feeling. Not that he would be afraid of a single Elf – not until he was within the reach of that Elven bow anyway – but he knew they could not shake the Elf off as easily as thy would shake off any Man. The senses of Elves were keener than even those of the Orcs – they would never be able to fool them.

Therefore, they would have to settle for speed.

Unfortunately, even some of his own lads were growing impatient with the whole affair.

“We have had enough of lugging the prisoners about,” growled Lugdush. “If we have to climb down, they should use their legs, too.”

“They would escape in the moment we freed their legs,” one of the guards protested. “They might be small, but small creatures are tricky.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Lugdush grinned evilly. “Besides, there are ways of paying for tricks that they won’t like, and those still won’t spoil their usefulness for the Master.”

Uglúk eyed Lugdush appreciatively. She was admirably ruthless, even for a female, although no-one but another Uruk-hai would be able to guess her gender rightly; mayhap not even another Orc. Mayhap he should consider breeding with Lugdush, once this fight was over. She had excellent traits and a good bloodline. They could spawn truly outstanding offspring together,

Now, however, he had more urgent plans to make. He needed speed and had to humour unwilling followers. Not that his own Uruks would turn against him, at least not as long as he did not make any mistake, but he had to keep the Northerners and Grishnákh’s filthy lot under control somehow.

The others kept arguing, and tempers were getting high already.

“There's no time to kill them properly,” said Lugdush, trying to quench the bloodthirst of the others. “No time for play on this trip.”

“That can't be helped,” scowled Grúbburz, a rather unpleasant fellow, whom the others just called the Gasher. “But why not kill them quick, kill them now? They're a cursed nuisance, and we're in a hurry. Evening's coming on, and we ought to get a move on.”

“Orders.” said Uglúk in a deep growl, annoyed that not even his closest company could understand the importance of their mission. “’Kill all but not the Halflings; they are to be brought back alive as quickly as possible.’ That's my orders.'

“What are they wanted for?” asked Bâshdûl, a particularly unpleasant female, who had earned herself the byname ‘the Slobberer’. “Why alive? Do they give good sport?”

“No!” Grothrásh, one of the largest of the entire Uruk-hai band answered in Uglúk’s stead. “I heard that one of them has got something, something that's wanted for the War, some Elvish plot or other. Anyway they'll both be questioned.”

Uglúk rolled his eyes. Of all people, it had to be Grothrásh to eavesdrop on his conversation with the Master. Bad enough that Grothrásh was an idiot; the lad could not keep his mouth shut, either. But he was one of their best warriors; he could not afford to leave them behind.

“Is that all you know?” said Bâshdûl petulantly. “Why don't we search them and find out? We might find something that we could use ourselves.”

“That is a very interesting remark,” sneered the low, whiny voice of Grishnákh, the leader of that cursed band from Lugbúrz. “I may have to report that. _The prisoners are not to be searched or plundered_ : those are my orders.”

“And mine too,” replied Uglúk, not liking a bit that the miserable excuse of an Orc was trying to take over control again. “ _Alive and as captured; no spoiling_. That's my orders.”

“Not our orders!” said one of the Northerners belligerently. “We have come all the way from the Mines to kill, and avenge our folk. I wish to kill, and then go back north.”

Uglúk smiled menacingly, his fanged teeth glinting in the red light. Some of the Northerners cringed and scurried out of his way.

“Then you can wish again,” he growled. “I am Uglúk. I command. I return to Isengard by the shortest road. If you don’t like it, no-one forces you to stay. Go!”

The Northerner glared at him, full of hatred.

“If I had my way, they were dead now,” he said, “and so would you. You Uruks always do as if you were something special, while you’re naught but the muckrakers of a dirty little wizard.”

Uglúk threw back his head and laughed – it was a terrifying sound, and not for the prisoners alone. He could see the Northerners cringle again, and even the lads of Grishnákh – short, crook-legged creatures, almost as broad as they were tall, their long arms hanging to the ground – backed off carefully. There was something to say about being a big, black Uruk, larger even than Men; their mere size could frighten the smaller goblins into obedience. Well, most of them.

“A little wizard?” repeated Uglúk, still chuckling so evilly that some smaller Orcs from the North shuddered. “You fools! You don’t know what you’re talking about. But you’ll learn soon enough. There’s no escape from Isengard; and if we bring the White Wizard what he needs, soon all these lands will be under his rule and we’ll grow strong on the flesh of horses… and even better.”

“You are very sure of yourself, Uglúk,” snarled Grishnákh, “but you are not in Isengard yet. “And since when is Saruman the master or the Great Eye?”

Uglúk showed his fangs in a mirthless grin. “Not yet. But he will, one day.”

“We’ll see it,” spat Grishnákh. “We’ll see it, you fool!” he waved his own followers around him, muttering under his foul breath in the language of the Black Lands. “ _Uglúk u bagronk sha pushdug Saruman-glob búbhosh skai_."

The others growled in agreement, and soon fell into a heated discussion that sounded in Uglúk’s ears like snarling and cursing. Unlike other Orcs, the fighting Uruk-hai of Isengard only used the Black Speech when dealing with their inferior kin. Among themselves, he used the language of Men – well, at least a modified version of it, one that was full of words from various Orcish dialects but at least still a much more advanced tongue.

Once again, Uglúk cursed the fates that forced him to work with these rats, but he had no other choice. Not ere they reached Isengard. There he would have the chance to repay them properly. Now, he had to speed up things, unless he wanted to wait here for the horsemen.

“Very well,” he gave in reluctantly. “Untie the legs of those midgets and give them some brandy to get them to their feet.”

Lugdush grinned and cut the thongs round the smaller Halfling’s legs and ankles, dragging him up by his hair. The small creature fell onto his face again, to the great amusement of the gathering Uruks, his legs still numb. Lugdush swore and thrust her leather-covered flask between the Halfling’s teeth, pouring some of the precious brandy down his throat reluctantly. The rabbit-like little things were no worth the good stuff she would have preferred to have for herself, to pull the soreness of her own limbs, but it was a necessary sacrifice.

And it worked just as it was supposed to. The Halfling could stand on his own mere moments later, giving his capturers angry looks, which earned another bout of giggling from the Uruks.

Uglúk nodded, satisfied. “Now for the other!” he said. “And waste no more time, we have to go on!”

Lugdush walked over to the other, still unconscious little midget and kicked him in the ribs – carefully, only to wake him up, without causing any serious damage. The creature groaned but did not move.

“Bring him here,” ordered Uglúk. “Lemme see that wound of his.”

Lugdush picked up the Halfling and threw him before Uglúk, pulling him into a sitting position and tore the bandage off his head. Uglúk examined the gash on the Halfling’s forehead – it did not look too bad. A shame that he had to kill that idiot Gâbhâk for damaging the prisoner. The fool had been a damn good fighter. Alas, Uglúk had to set an example if he ever wanted to get the prisoners to his Master in one piece.

“He’ll live,” he judged. “Gimme the medicine!”

Lugdush handed him the wooden box, and Uglúk smeared the wound with the dark salve. He knew it would heal by the time they reached Isengard; old Grúbkhash’ medicine always did its work nicely.

The Halfling seemed less convinced about the usefulness of Old Grúbkash healing salve. He cried out in pain, feeling the burning of the salve in his wound, and struggled wildly but futilely in Lugdush’ clawed hands that held him down. That amused the other Orcs to no end; they clapped and hooted.

“Can't take his medicine,” jeered Bâshrat, a very old warrior (for an Orc anyhow), who was not called ‘No-tooth’ without a reason; his widely open mouth resembled a dark cavern, filled with filthy things. “Doesn't know what's good for him. Ai! We shall have some fun later.”

“Much later, I daresay,” growled Uglúk, flashing his own respectable fangs at the toothless one. “We don’t have no time for sport now. Krumkû, cut his leg bonds and drag him to his feet. We must leave here at once.”

His first guard – as he wore the rank of a chieftain, he actually had several, this one happened to be a female one, and fierce enough to be nicknamed ‘the Horrible’, even among her own kind – obeyed swiftly. The Halfling stood, after a drink of precious brandy forced down his throat, looking pale but grim and defiant. One had to give the little rabbit some credit; he might be a fool but he was certainly no coward.

Which would make his… questioning the more fun, once thy reached Isengard. Krumkû would have the time of her life with him. She so loved that sort of job.

“Now then!" said Uglúk, dragging the little fool away from the side of his even smaller friend; they were actually babbling about bed ad breakfast! “None of that! Hold your tongues. No talk to one another. Any trouble will be reported at the other end, and He'll know how to pay you.”

“You'll get bed and breakfast all right,” Krumkû added with a gleefully evil grin; “more than you can stomach, little rabbits.”

“Keep an eye on them” growled Uglúk in a voice long enough that only his own followers could hear. “Don’t let any swine of Grishnákh come near them!”

Krumkû nodded and ordered a dozen or so of her best lads to surround the two Halflings and separate them from each other. They began to descend a narrow ravine leading down into the misty plain below. Reaching the bottom, they stepped on to grass, Uglúk took a deep breath They had come to level lands, which meant that they could now run faster and easier.

Unfortunately, so could the horses of the Mark.

“Now straight on!” he shouted. “Lugdush, take the lead, you know these fields best. Keep west and a little north. All others, follow Lugdush.”

Some of the Northerners seemed to be scared by the sight of the wide, open lands, where they could not hide from the sun.

“But what are we going to do at sunrise?” one of them asked; a small, scrawny creature, not worth to be called an Orc. Uglúk gave him a disgusted glare-

“Go on running,” he spat. “What do you think?”

“Maybe he wants to sit on the grass and wait for the Whiteskins to join him for a dance,” Krumkû suggested, obviously delighted by the idea of tossing the Northerners to the Horse-lords.

“And let them point the horsemen in our direction?” snorted Uglúk. “I don’t think so. No, we must stick together.”

“But we can't run in the sunlight,” the Northerner protested weakly.

“You'll run with me behind you,” Thraknazh, Uglúk’s second guard threatened him darkly. “Or you'll never see your beloved holes again.” And, to give his words some more weight, he swing his many-thonged whip menacingly, making the small Orc jump.

Uglúk shook his massive head in exasperation.

“By the White Hand!” he growled. “What's the use of sending out these half-trained mountain-maggots on a trip of such importance? Run, curse you! Run while night lasts, or you’ll get a taste of Thraknazh’ whip.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That got the smaller Orcs to their feet at once, and the whole band began to run with long, loping strides that is he wont of Orcs. They kept no order, aside from Uglúk’s well-trained people. The Northerners and those of Lugbúrz were thrusting, jostling and cursing, more so when the whip-thongs of Thraknazh liked along their legs. That way, they were able to keep a great speed, yet Uglúk was still not happy. He kept seeing the keen face of the Elf, bending over their trail and running after them, too lightly even for the grass to bend much under his feet.

They had come about a mile from the cliff with that forced speed, when the land sloped down into a wide shallow depression. The ground here was soft and wet, making their iron-shod feet sink, and mist lay there, pale-glimmering in the last rays of the sickle moon. The dark shapes of Lugdush and her immediate followers in front grew dim, and then were seemingly swallowed up.

“Ai! Steady now!” shouted Uglúk from the rear. “Don’t lose sight of the peak, lads, or we won’t find you in this cursed fog, ever!”

The same thought must have leaped into the smaller Halfling’s mind, too, for he dived out of the reach of his guards and swerved aside, headfirst into the mist. Luckily, he could not jump very far, so he was still visible, lying sprawled on the grass.

“Halt!” yelled Uglúk. The mere thought that they could have lost one of their prisoners made him furious. “Don’t let him escape!”

There was for a moment turmoil and confusion. The Halfling sprang up and ran. But Thraknazh was already running up and wielding his whip with a surprisingly loose wrist from a big, black Uruk.

The little midget could only halfway stifle a cry as the whip-thongs curled around his legs, stopping him abruptly.

“Enough!” shouted Uglúk running up to grab Thraknazh’ arm as the whip-master prepared for the next move. “He's still got to run a long way yet. Make 'em both run! Just use the whip as a reminder.”

Thraknazh nodded testily; he was no fool, thus he understood the importance of speed. He would have his fun with the miserable little creatures once they reached Isengard. Oh, he would have so much fun! He and Krumkû made a great couple, not only as breeding mates but as questioners, too. There had not been a prisoner yet that would not sing like a nightingale when _they_ questioned him.

Not that any Uruk would really care for birdsong, of course. The comparison originated from their Master, who had some interest in living creatures, for reasons they could not understand. But again, understanding was never required of them. Just obedience.

Yet Uglúk was not comforted by the thought of their Master’s stronghold. They were still too far from its safety – and the prisoners were causing trouble. That could not be tolerated.

“That was not all,” he snarled at the cowering Halfling, fighting very hard the violent urge to rip out all of its limbs, one by one. “I shan't forget. Payment is only put off,” he grabbed the short, curly hair of the midget, yanked it up to eye level, then dropped it roughly. “Leg it!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The chase went on for a long time. They ran and ran, swift-footed Lugdush on the peak, the Northerners following, driven by the whip-thongs of Thraknazh, who made no true difference if the slow ones were Orcs or Halflings. He handled his tool of discipline cunningly, and Uglúk felt pride watching him.

The other Uruk was nearly as tall as he was, with a wide chest and broad shoulders, his dark skin gleaming with sweat, his matted hair covering his back, giving him an even more ferocious look. That was what a fighting Uruk ought to be like. Maybe he should make Thraknazh Second Guard. Let him take over for Gâbhâk, the unlucky fool, permanently. With a mated couple watching his back, Uglúk would have no reason to worry about his position. Neither Krumkû, nor Thraknazh would allow the other one to kill the chieftain and step into his place. Competition between mates was a powerful thing – and very useful for him.

On the second night, another turmoil began to grow among the cursed Northerners. The constant murmurs among them swell up to an angry clamour; many of them were demanding a halt. The Uruk-hai troops closed up to the prisoners, forming a protective circle, and Lugdush came running back, angry about the tarrying.

“What are you waiting for?” she shouted. “We must go on, lest we shall caught you cursed fools!”

“They can’t go on, not right away,” Krumkû jeered. “Their tender limbs can’t take the hardness of the path, the poor little maggots! I say let’s have them behind for the horsemen to play.”

“No,” said Uglúk, albeit reluctantly, for the idea was tempting indeed. “There’s safety in numbers. And the prisoners need rest, too. A short one. Let us rest and eat while we can – we shall go on, soon.”

They all collapsed on the stomped grass. Uglúk ordered Gâshag, one of his more trustworthy followers to feed the prisoners. The little midgets needed their strength to go on later. It was morning already; the tall peak of the mountains looming ahead was catching the first rays of the sun. On the lower slopes before them there was a dark smudge that Uglúk knew to be a forest… and not one he would have liked to enter, if not necessary.

Lugdush lowered herself next to him on the bank of the swift, narrow river. She offered him a piece of thick, crumbling _rahdak_ cake and her flask of brandy.

“You’ll need your strength,” she said. “The mountain maggots and the cursed fools of Lugbúrz are stirring trouble again. You must be swift and strong to kill them before things turn… ugly.”

Uglúk accepted the sweet, sticky treat – it was not only delicious, melting on his tongue most pleasantly, it also could give one strength for many hours. They said Elves had something like that; one of the snaga had once found some waybread by one of the fallen archers of the Golden Wood. But it was a hard and dry wafer, the snaga said, and tasted like dust, almost suffocating him.

It surprised Uglúk, however, that Lugdush was willing to share her precious resources with him. He told so. The female gave him a fanged grin and shrugged those broad, magnificent shoulders of hers.

“I prefer you as chieftain to other candidates,” she said. “With a new one, I’d have to fight for my position all over again. It’s better for me if you stay in command.”

Uglúk grinned back. “I know how you could strengthen your position further,” he said. “I wanna breed with ya, once we are back in Isengard.”

“A good choice,” Lugdush stretched her luscious, gleaming black body provocatively. “But wouldn’t the wizard mind if I were with cubs and could not serve as a tracker for a while?”

“He wants us to breed,” Uglúk shrugged. “We want to breed, too – I see no problems there. Besides a good shag always boosts morale among the troops, and the wizard knows that.”

Lugdush grinned from ear to ear, turning to all fours and wiggling her firm rump invitingly. “Wanna boast my morale now?”

Uglúk would have been willing to do so during their short rest. Unfortunately, they were interrupted by more shouting and debating among the troops. A quarrel seemed on the point of breaking out with the tunnel-rats again. Some of them were pointing back away south, and some were pointing eastward, while Thraknazh was wielding his whip and Krumkû played with her long knife – absent-mindedly, it seemed, but Uglúk knew better.

Gâshag and Krumluk had already planted themselves firmly in front of the prisoners, ready to kill anyone who tried to grab them, and now Baghâk and Skraluk were running up to their aid, as well as the toothless old Bashrat and Ghashur who was almost as huge as Uglúk himself.

Uglúk jumped to his feet with an impatient growl. ‘Twas time to deal with these maggots, but by the White Hand, he was growing tired of them. They had just robbed him of the most perfect rest a fighting Uruk could hope for.

“You want to go home, to your smelly holes?” he growled. “Very well; leave the prisoners to me then! No killing, as I've told you before; but if you want to throw away what we've come all the way to get, throw it away! I'll look after it.”

“We’ll look after it,” Krumkû corrected, trying the razor-sharp edge of her knife on one long, bent claw. “The fighting Uruk-hai shall do the work, as usual.

“If you're afraid of the Whiteskins, run!” added Uglúk with a feral grin. “Run! There's the forest,” he shouted, pointing ahead. “Get to it! It's your best hope. Off you go! And quick, before I knock a few more heads off, to put some sense into the others.”

After a great amount of cursing and scuffling, most of the Northerners broke away and dashed off, running wildly along the river towards the mountains.

“How many are gone?” asked Uglúk, barely concealing his disgust.

“Over a hundred of them,” reported Thraknazh. “Only a few scouts remained with us. Not that the others would ever get out of the forest alive, of course,” he added with a board, decidedly unpleasant grin. “I’ve heard the trees are… less than hospitable over there.”

“Good riddance,” growled Uglúk. “Now all we have to do is to deal with Grishnákh and his rabble.”

“I’m not sure about that,” said Lugdush, looking uneasily southwards.

“I know,' growled Uglúk. “The cursed horse-boys have got wind of us. But that's all your fault, Snaga,” he added, glaring at the small scout who was, once again, cringing with fear. “You and the other scouts ought to have your ears cut off.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Krumkû shrugged. “We still have a score, a score of Uruk-hai, not some pathetic mountain maggots. We are the fighters. We'll feast on horseflesh yet, or something better.”

“If our ‘friends’ don’t get us into trouble first,” snarled Skaithak, also known as the Crippler.

Uglúk shot him an unfriendly look. Of all his underlings, Skaithak was the only one who could threaten his position. That miserable excuse of an Uruk could never have slain a Man face to face but was very good at killing and maiming anyone from behind. Including his own kind. _And_ he was very talented in kissing up to the wizard. Both were skills that could prove very useful, given the right circumstances. Which was the very reason why Uglúk always kept a watchful eye on Skaithak.

At the moment, however, he was forced to agree with his main adversary. Seeing the rabble of Grishnákh returning – and a couple of score of them at that – he almost wished the horsemen had arrived before them. _Almost_.

“So you've come back?” he asked, stepping forward to meet Grishnákh, who involuntary backed off a little. “Thought better of it, eh? Or were you scared away by a few stray rabbits?”

“I've returned to see that Orders are carried out and the prisoners are safe,” scowled Grishnákh.

“Indeed?” said Krumkû in a menacingly sweet tone. “But will it be safe for _you_? I doubt it. Very much.”

“Besides, it was waste of effort,” said Uglúk. “ _I'll_ see that orders are carried out under my command. I always have. And they always were.”

“Mayhap he came back for something else?” said Krumkû sweetly. 

Uglúk shrugged. “What for? He left in a hurry to save his hide, didn’t he?”

“Mayhap he left something behind?” suggested Lugdush with gleaming eyes. “Or he _will_ , very soon? His head, for one thing?”

“I left a fool,” snarled Grishnákh. “But there were some stout fellows with him that are too good to lose. The ones that would not let their females order them around.”

“Our males _follow_ us,” corrected Lugdush, “because we are better in finding the right way. You’re babbling about things you don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?” riposted Grishnákh, showing his fangs. “I knew you and that fool Uglúk would lead them into a mess. I've come to help them.”

If he wanted to impress the bigger, stronger Orcs, he was sorely disappointed. All the Uruk-hai surrounding their leader were howling with laughter at the mere thought of them needing the help of Grishnákh and his band.

“Splendid!” laughed Uglúk, tears of merriment in his eyes. “But unless you've got some guts for fighting, you've taken the wrong way.”

“Wasn’t Lugbúrz your road?” asked Bâshdûl with false innocence. “The Whiteskins are coming – since when are you so eager to fight them?”

“And by the way – what's happened to your precious Nazgûl?” added Uglúk. “Has he had another mount shot under him? Or has that Elf got him now, for a change?”

“Now, if they'd brought _him_ along, that might have been useful,” commented Thraknazh dryly. “If these Nazgûl are all they make out, that is.”

“You think?” asked Uglúk in disgust. “What good have the wraiths of Lugbúrz done to us? What _can_ Nazgûl do at all, aside from making Men wet themselves with fear?”

“Nazgûl, Nazgûl,” Grishnákh shivered and licked his lips, as if the word had a foul taste that he savoured painfully – to the great amusement of the Uruk-hai, who, unlike lesser Orcs, had no fear from the wraiths. “You speak of what is deep beyond the reach of your muddy dreams, Uglúk!”

“Enlighten me, then,” said Uglúk with a broad grin, folding his arms across his massive chest. “What is it that your precious Nazgûl make out? For what I’ve seen so far isn’t much to speak of.”

Grishnákh’s eyes rolled backwards – it was a strange picture of hatred, rage and panic.

“Ape!” he snarled fiercely. “Ah! All that they make out! One day you'll wish that you had not said that.”

“So, will I?” grinned Uglúk. “And why’d I do such a thing?”

Grishnákh looked around to make sure his own people couldn’t hear him – showing any weakness would have been just as fatal among lesser Orcs as it was among the Uruk-hai. But right now, he needed Uglúk on his side, at least until the threat of the horsemen was over, so he tried to make the bigger Orc understand.

“Listen to me, you fool,” he hissed. “You ought to know that they're the apple of the Great Eye. We can’t afford to make them angry. But the winged Nazgûl: not yet, not yet. _He_ won't let them show themselves across the Great River yet, not too soon. They're for the War – and other purposes.”

“You seem to know a lot,” said Uglúk suspiciously. “More than is good for you, I guess.”

“Perhaps those in Lugbúrz might wonder how, and why,” commented Krumkû wryly.

“You think you could hide anything from the Great Eye?” replied Grishnákh with a derisive snort. “I was sent, I tell you, because I am trustworthy. And trusted."

“If Lugbúrz trusts you, then they are greater fools than I’ve ever thought,” said Uglúk. “And in the meantime the Uruk-hai of Isengard can do the dirty work, as usual. But not for Lugbúrz; forget it. We fight for the White Hand, not for your precious Red Eye.”

He turned away from the band of Lugbúrz and looked at his own people. “Time to run again, he said. “Gâshag, Krumluk, pick up the prisoners. Krumkû, Thraknazh, get the lads going. Lugdush, take the lead and let’s leg it.”

The two that he had named seized the little midgets again and slung them on their backs. The two guards formed the troop to start off again – which required quite a lot of whip-handling from Thraknazh’ side, but happened quickly enough to satisfy even Uglúk. Ere he would start after his troop, he turned back and shot a malicious look at Grishnákh.

“Don't stand slavering there!” he gloated. “Get your rabble together! The other swines are legging it to the forest. You'd better follow. You would never get back to the Great River alive.”

“Right off the mark!” added Thraknazh, swinging his whip in obvious delight. “Now, damn you! I'll be on your heels.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be Orc sex. Very tame. But you have been warned nevertheless.

_* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_

_So it was that they did not see the last stand, when Uglúk was overtaken and brought to bay at the very edge of Fangorn. There he was slain at last by Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Mark, who dismounted and fought him sword to sword. And over the wide fields the keen-eyed Riders hunted down the few Orcs that had escaped and still had strength to fly._

_TTT – Chapter 3: The Uruk-hai (p. 73)_

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
PART 2**

They ran and ran all day, with the single-minded stubbornness only the Uruk-hai were capable of, even among Orcs. They never paused, only slowed down a little to sling the prisoners to fresh carriers, so that no-one would be worn down by the added weight. Each and every one of the Uruks took his or her turn, save the tracker, the whip-master and Uglúk himself – they were needed for more important tasks.

Although Uglúk’s original intention had been to herd Grishnákh’s band before them, the Uruk-hai gradually passed through the miserable rats of Lugbúrz, who then closed in behind them.

“I don’t like it,” growled Thraknazh in a low voice. “They’re holding back deliberately. They should be far before us.”

“But we are faster and hardier than them,” pointed out Krumkû, breaking the nose of one of Grishnákh’s folk, who had come too close for her taste, with practiced ease.

“Thraknazh is right,” replied Uglúk. “That cursed Grishnákh is planning something. Keep an eye on him, Krumkû, ‘til we reach the forest.”

“You plan to go _into_ the forest?” asked Krumkû, her discomfort clearly visible. There were not many things that could frighten Krumkû the Horrible, but those strange, ancient woods were among them. Uglúk shuddered, too.

“Not if we can avoid it, no,” he replied. “But we might have to. The horses of the Whiteskins wouldn’t follow us in…. and if we leave the Northern maggots to the trees to play with – _and_ don’t touch the trees themselves – we’ll be all right, I think.”

“You _think_?” asked Krumkû incredulously. 

Uglúk shrugged. “I _hope_. We cannot fight both, the trees and the horsemen, and right now, the horsemen are the lesser peril.”

They kept running, and soon they were gaining also on the Northerners, far ahead. The sure-footed Lugdush ran on the peak, untiring, unresting, her strong legs going up and down, up and down, as if her whole body were made of wire and horn, and Uglúk allowed himself a moment of indulgence, envisioning the splendid offspring he would sire with this exceptional female. Lugdush was still very young, barely two years beyond maturity, and she had not been allowed to breed yet. But at the age of eight it would not be too early; and Uglúk was determined to safeguard her for himself.

At the moment, however, they had to run if they wanted to reach the questionable safety of the forest. So run they did, and Uglúk saw with dismay and suspicion that Grishnákh’s folk was indeed capable of catching up with them.

In the afternoon they actually overtook the Northerners. Those were already flagging in the rays of the winter sun, pale and powerless though it was. Their heads were hanging down and their tongues lolling out.

“Maggots!' jeered Thraknazh, swinging his whip to urge them to greeter speed. “You're cooked.”

“The Whiteskins will catch you and eat you,” added Krumkû with a grin. “They're coming!”

The other Uruk-hai hollered in amusement. But Uglúk’s mind was not set to jests right now. He had heard Grishnákh’s frightened cry, and looking back, he could indeed see the horsemen already. The cursed Whiteskins were still far behind but gaining on them like a tide over the flats on folks straying in quicksand.

Uglúk shook his head angrily. Right now, he had no use for these strange images about a Sea he had never seen, nor his ancestors as far back as he could count them. He snarled at Thraknazh to redouble the pace, and the whip-master ran back, wielding his thongs with the usual cunning hand. Not that the Uruk-hai needed any urging, but the rats of Lugbúrz spurted better under pressure than on their own.

The sun was sinking already behind the Misty Mountains, and though the Uruk-hai did not fear its rays, nor were weakened by them, Uglúk gave a relieved sigh, seeing how the shadows reached over the land. Shadows and darkness were their allies – they all fought better at night. Even the rabble of Grishnákh lifted their heads and began to put on speed, now that the sun was gone.

The forest was dark and close, promising safety – if true or false one, he dared not to ask, but there was some hope at the very least. As they passed a few outlying trees, the land began to rise more steeply. Some of the more tired, smaller Orcs slowed down involuntarily.

“Steady now!” shouted Uglúk. “No falling back, unless you want to be shot down, fools! Run! Run as long as you still can!”

As if they wanted to give his words more weight, the riders had caught up with them eastward already, galloping level with them on the plain. The sunset gilded their spears and helmets and glinted on their loose, yellow hair. Uglúk did not like what he saw. He did not like it a bit. The horsemen were hemming them in, preventing the maggots from the North and Grishnákh’s rabble from scattering, and driving them along the line of the river.

“That doesn’t look good,” he growled to Krumkû, who nodded grimly.

“We walked into a trap,” she said. “If we survive this, I’m tearing that _snaga_ to pieces with my bare hands. Had he shot that horseman, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

“We could beat the Whiteskins,” sneered Skaithak, glaring at Uglúk challengingly. “If we had a chieftain with stones, that is.”

That was not a challenge Uglúk could have left unanswered, not when he wanted to keep his position. But ere he could have drawn his sword, and arrow came seemingly out of nowhere, hitting Skaithak in the throat, and the Crippler, who had been running right before the ones carrying the prisoners, stumbled and did not get up again.

Uglúk looked around, seeking for the source of that arrow, and detected a few riders with great bows in their hands. They appeared to have ridden swiftly into range, to shoot the Orcs from a running horse. Many of the lower soldiers of Lugbúrz had fallen already – though this was the first time that one of his own lads had been killed. And while Uglúk certainly did not mourn for Skaithak, this was unsettling nonetheless.

The fools of Lugbúrz were shooting back wildly, but since none of them dared to halt, their arrows went widely off target. The riders wheeled out of the range of their bows easily.

“Stop it, you fools,” shouted Uglúk angrily. “You are just wasting your arrows. Run! Run to that hillock before us – there we can defend ourselves better, should we not reach the woods in time.”

None of the Orcs needed encouragement to do so, not even the fools of Lugbúrz. Night was falling quickly, but the riders did _not_ close in for battle before the fall of night; something that Uglúk found strange and unsettling at the same time. The Orcs managed to reach the hillock that he had pointed out earlier, but they could not go any further, even though the eaves of the forest were very near.

“Probably three furlongs away, no more,” murmured Lugdush,” mayhap even less. Should we try to run for it?”

Uglúk shook his massive head. “Nah; don’t you see the horsemen before us? They cut us off, the cursed Whiteskins.”

“They have completely encircled us,” corrected Lugdush grimly.

She spoke in a low voice, but not low enough for the sharp ears of the rats of Lugbúrz, who panicked from the thought of being trapped at once. Uglúk tried to calm them down, with the questionable help of that twice-cursed Grishnákh, so that they would not waste their strength before the actual battle broke loose, but there was no reasoning with the dim-witted idiots. A small band of them broke off to run for the forest – only three returned a little later.

Grishnákh, of course, was furious, and tried to put the blame on Uglúk, as could have been expected.

“Well, here we are,” he sneered. “Fine leadership! I hope the great Uglúk will lead us out again.”

Uglúk paid him no attention. There were orders to give and troops to organize. Their situation was precarious at the very best – but he still trusted the strength and courage of his lads, if they only could set up a well-defended camp until the reinforcements arrived. Mauhúr would not let him die and rot in this trap, of that he was certain. There were no true bonds among Uruks born by the same female, not even among twin cubs like Mauhúr and himself. But beyond the bonds of blood, they were also allies… and they both knew their duty to the Wizard and to their own kin.

“Put those Halflings down!” he ordered Skarburz and Kumghash, who were currently carrying them. “You, Azdreg, get two others and stand guard over them! They're not to be killed, unless the filthy Whiteskins break through. Understood?”

Azdreg, one of his best lads, whom he had trained personally and hand-picked for this perilous task, gave a short nod and did as ordered. Uglúk lowered his voice to an almost inaudible growl.

“As long as I'm alive, I want 'em. But they're not to cry out, and they're _not_ to be rescued.”

Azdreg nodded again. He was as loyal to Uglúk as any Orc ever could be – meaning that he only set his own interests above those of his chieftain.

“Bind their legs!” he ordered, and the other guards carried out the order mercilessly.

In the meantime, Thraknazh tried to organize and settle the troops with the help of his trusted whip. That caused a great amount of noise, of course, with the whip master and his helpers shouting, the rats of Lugbúrz snarling and clashing their weapons and the mountain-maggots from the North squealing with fear like piglets.

They gathered on the hillock, hiding and resting as well as they could in the cold and still night. Sitting on the top of the knoll, Uglúk grimly watched the little fires springing up all around them, in a perfect circle.

“They are within a long bowshot,” calculated Ashluk, their best bowman. “I could hit them from here.”

“You could,” shrugged Uglúk, “ _if_ they showed themselves against the light. Which they do not, and… Hey, you stupid rats,” he jumped to his feet, running down to the band of Lugbúrz, who started shooting at the fires uselessly. “Stop wasting your arrows, or I’ll make you another head shorter!”

“There’s no use to try anything ‘til the moon rises,” Lugdush agreed.

“That could take half the night,” said Thraknazh. “Time enough to do that which must be done.”

The eyes of the nearby Uruk-hai turned to Uglúk in expectance. They were no fools; they knew that they could be killed in the upcoming battle with the horsemen – all of them. They were sitting in a trap, with basically no way out.

Uglúk hesitated. On the one hand, they needed to mate before the battle, to make the females pregnant, in the hope that some of them might escape and ensure the further existence of their bloodline. _That which must be done_ , Thraknazh had said. The urge to ensure the clan’s next generation was in their blood.

On the other hand, Uruk-hai had shared one peculiar treat with the hated Elves: by creating offspring, they had to give up a part of themselves. Elves were said to sacrifice part of their very essence – their _fëa_ , the Wizard had called it – both parents had to, to call a new life into being. Uruk-hai were taught that they had to give up a great deal of their strength by creating offspring, at least temporarily. And, in fact, the act of breeding weakened both participants considerable for the next couple of hours. Which they could not truly afford in the present situation.

Yet Uglúk knew that the urge to ensure the further existence of their bloodline would win over the more sober considerations. It always did. It was simply too strong to be ignored. ‘Twould be best to give in right away, so that they would have at least some time to recover. That could save their lives.

“You’re right,” he said to Thraknazh with a heavy sigh. “We must do this, and we must do it now, while there’s still time. Let Bâshdûl guard the prisoners. I’ll select the ones who are most worthy for breeding.”

It was his right to make that all-important choice. He was the chieftain. But it was a hard choice indeed. They had but a handful females with them, aside from Krumkû who was already taken and for Lugdush whom he had already selected for himself. As for the rest, Bâshdûl was infertile and thus useless, which was the very reason why she got selected for every perilous task – she was expendable. Gâshag was already beyond breeding age. That left only four females, and almost thrice as many impatient males to choose from.

After some consideration, Uglúk chose four of his biggest, strongest and most loyal lads: Azdreg, Krumghash, Skarburz and Ghashur. He left Grothrásh and a few extraordinarily strong but rather slow-witted lads out. They would need their full strength in battle later. More so since the others would be weakened.

“You know what you must do,” he said to the selected couples. “See that you get all females pregnant – and that they escape, no matter the costs. They – and the cubs they’ll bear – might be all what remains of our clan by tomorrow.”

The others nodded grimly. They were the best and the brightest of their generation; he did not need to lie to them. They would do what had to be done, proud that they could save their excellent bloodlines. Individual Uruks were expendable, but the clan _had_ to survive.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
This was not how Uglúk had envisioned his mating with the gorgeous Lugdush, but it had to do. If they survived, he could take his time and full pleasure later. Now he had to focus on getting her pregnant – which was not an easy task. As much as Uruk-hai shagged merrily for recreational purposes, creating a new life demanded a great deal of effort… from both participants. Mounting the female for some thrust-and-grunt was not enough for _that_.

Fortunately, this was not Uglúk’s first time to breed, so he knew what to do and what to expect. He only regretted that they did not have the time or the peace to actually _enjoy_ the act – Lugdush yielded to his mastery so beautifully, her luscious body hot like the furnaces under Orthanc, her limbs so smooth and so strong. With a tiny part of his mind on the physical requirements, Uglúk neared completion almost too quickly, while the larger, more important part of his mind waited for what was about to happen: for the truly important moment of their coupling.

And yet it caught him unaware. The touch of Lugdush’ mind upon his own was like living fire, dark and all-consuming. They fought for a moment for dominance – and then they merged to one dark, violent flame, much stronger than the two separate ones had been before, burning with a merciless heat even the Uruk-hai could endure but for a short time. Uglúk felt the strength pour out of his limbs, out of his very spirits, as liquid metal would pour into the casting mould to create something new, something strong, wondrous and full of dark beauty only an Orc could appreciate. He could almost touch that new spark taking shape between the two of them. He could feel it grow and form itself…

Not being able to hold up the mental bond any longer, he rolled off his mate, exhausted but comforted by the certainty that they had succeeded.

“Did it catch?” he asked, just confirm his feeling, knowing that while he could be wrong (as unlikely it might be), Lugdush could not. It was an instinct with females – they always _knew_.

Lugdush, too exhausted to speak – breeding took its toll on females, too, even more so than on males – gave a weak growl of agreement. Uglúk patted her rump affectionately.

“That’s good. Rest now, as well as you can. You must try to slip out of our camp as soon as you’re strong enough to walk. _Before_ the Whiteskins attack. I want you gone before the battle breaks out. Head for Isengard, but hide in the Wizard’s Vale ‘til you can be sure Orthanc is safe.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” asked Lugdush, proving the amazing recovery powers of the Uruk-hai once again as she rolled onto her feet. 

Uglúk shrugged. “It seems the Wizard has made a lot of enemies lately. I think he’ll be victorious in the end… but I wouldn’t risk your life – or that of the cubs.”

“I can’t tell if there are more than just one,” admitted Lugdush.

“It's too early for that,” said Uglúk. “But whether one or more, you need to be safe. Remember Old Gâbkrísh’s hiding place just outside the Ring of Isengard? You can lay low there for a while.”

“What about you?” asked Lugdush. “I’ve got a rotten feeling about this battle.”

“Me, too,” said Uglúk, “but we can’t run away from it now. If I survive, I’ll go after you. If I don’t – it’s up to you to protect the cubs. Even if it means to turn your back on Orthanc.”

Lugdush nodded in agreement. By breeding new generations of Uruk-hai, with a keen mind of their own, the Wizard had practically laid the foundation of their disloyalty, when it came to the first imperative of their existence: the survival of the clan. They would fight and die for Saruman without a thought – unless doing so endangered their offspring. That was something the Wizard did not know, and they were sly enough not tell him. They had not been the puppets the Wizard thought them to be for a very long time.

“I’ll send Krumkû with you,” continued Uglúk. “She’s older and stronger than you, and for a while, she’ll be very useful. But you must not trust her.”

“I never did,” said Lugdush with a tired grin. “She’s insane.”

“That she is,” agreed Uglúk, “and when she frenzies due to her pregnancy, she’d kill you in the first unguarded moment. If you think she’s insane _now_ , you should see her when she’s with cubs. I have – and I don’t want to see it ever again.”

“Why are you sending her with me, then?” asked Lugdush.

“You’ll need protection in the first couple o’days, ‘til you regain your full strength,” answered Uglúk. “Even weakened, Krumkû is formidable – the two of you have a better chance together. But you must part ways with her as soon as you feel strong enough.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Feeling strong enough to walk again himself, Uglúk reluctantly left his mate behind (contrary to common belief, Uruk-hai actually _did_ feel a certain degree of fondness for those they bred with – as long as it would not endanger their life or position) and went to check on the perimeters of their camp. The moon had just come out of the mist, so that the shadowy shapes of the riders could be seen now and again in its whit light, as they moved in ceaseless patrol.

The guards saw them, too, and they were not happy.

“They'll wait for the Sun, curse them!” growled Búrztakh - called the One-eyed for obvious reasons - the blood-red ruby he wore in his empty eye-socket glinting in the firelight. “Why don't we get together and charge through?”

Some of the others picked up his remark and agreed. The other Orcs supported the idea. None of them liked sitting in a trap, waiting for being slain… or being cooked in the sunlight.

“What's old Uglúk think he's doing, I should like to know?” added Búrztakh, pouring oil into the fire. He was one of Skaithak’s allies and hated the chieftain with a passion. Mayhap he hoped to take over Skaithak’s place, if he only played his cards well.

“I daresay you would,' snarled Uglúk stepping up from behind. “Meaning I don't think at all, eh?”

He found the fearful cringing of Búrztakh very satisfying, but he was not about to let him rouse the others. They had no time for this folly.

“Do you?” riposted Búrztakh challengingly, knowing all too well that the chieftain was still weakened from the mating and wouldn’t waste his strength with the killing of one rebellious underling. “Or has all that shagging clouded your tiny brain too much? I’d say…”

He could not continue his hateful tirade, for Grothrásh, slow-witted but as loyal as any Orc could ever be, hit him in the face, breaking his nose with one brutal punch.

“Curse you!” the Slaughterer scowled. “You're as bad as the other rabble: the maggots and the apes of Lugbúrz. As if you didn’t know them! No good trying to charge with them. They'd just squeal and bolt, and there are more than enough of these filthy horseboys to mop up our lot on the flat.”

Which was all too true, of course, but the reminder did not serve to calm the agitated Orcs down.

“But we’re still sitting in a rat-trap,” said Bagdreg, voicing everyone’s main concern. “We should try and break out as long as it’s still dark. The maggots are stronger at nighttime.”

Uglúk shook his head. “No, Grothrásh is right. There's only one thing those maggots can do: they can see like gimlets in the dark. But these Whiteskins have better night-eyes than most Men, from all I've heard; and don't forget their horses! They can see the night-breeze, or so it's said.”

“Great,” scowled Búrztakh, carefully pawing his still bleeding nose. “And why are we sitting here and waiting for them, then?”

“Because there's one thing the fine fellows don't know,” replied Uglúk with a feral grin. “Mauhúr and his lads are in the forest, and they should turn up any time now.”

The other Orcs were not much comforted by this promise, but the Uruk-hai sighed in relief. Mauhúr had troops as strong as their own – even stronger, as they had lost quite a few lads near Rauros themselves – and with he help of the other rabble, they could trap the horsemen between them and slay Men and horses alike, providing not only a way out but also a most satisfying meal.

Uglúk ordered the rats of Lugbúrz to post a few watchers – not that he thought it would be of any use, but at least it gave them something to do – and returned to where he hoped to find Thraknazh. The whip-master was slowly regaining his strength, too; Krumkû was a demanding mate, even under normal circumstances, and getting her pregnant had been a rather… exhausting event.

“The females have left,” he reported. “Krumkû went with Lugdush, as ordered, and the other two left together. Any sound of Mauhúr and the others?”

Uglúk shook his head. “Not yet. But soon. Mauhúr is shrewd; he’ll use the darkness to close in.”

It had indeed become very dark again, for the moon passed westward into thick cloud, and not even the keen night-eyes of the Uruk-hai could see any further than a few feet away. The fires of the horsemen brought no light to the hillock. But Uglúk was grateful for the protecting darkness. It made it easier for Lugdush and the others to slip through unnoticed.

Thraknazh moved his massive shoulders a little to get the kinks out of his back. There would be battle, soon, and he needed his skills sharp and honed. This was not the first time he fought the horsemen and knew it would not be an easy fight. With the Whiteskins, it never was.

“What now?” he asked. 

Uglúk shrugged. “Now we wait.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t my original intention to give other Riders than Éomer an appearance. But poor Gárulf wanted a small credit, just this one time, and we all know that Éothain likes to make himself look important.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
_So it was that they did not see the last stand, when Uglúk was overtaken and brought to bay at the very edge of Fangorn. There he was slain at last by Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Mark, who dismounted and fought him sword to sword. And over the wide fields the keen-eyed Riders hunted down the few Orcs that had escaped and still had strength to fly._

_TTT – Chapter 3: The Uruk-hai (p. 73)_

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
PART 3**

They did not have to wait very long. Soon, a sudden outcry on the east side of the hillock alerted them that something was wrong. Uglúk dashed off to see what might have happened… and cursed violently. Half a dozen dead Orcs from Grishnákh’s rabble lay in a bloody heap on the grass.

“It seems that the ‘watchers’ chose to rest pleasantly, instead of actually _watching_ ,” commented Bagdreg with a scowl.

“It also seems, though, that the filthy Whiteskins won’t just wait for the dawn and let us rest,” added Thraknazh grimly. “Some of them must have ridden in close, slipped off their beasts, crawled to the edge of our camp and killed these cursed fools. Some watchers indeed.”

“Well, that can’t be helped anymore,” said Uglúk with a shrug. “We better prepare for an attack, though.”

Thraknazh ran off, wielding his whip generously, not caring whom he happened to catch with the cruel thongs. A little pain was always good to keep the lads on their toes. In a surprisingly short time, he got the troops in an acceptable shape, even the thrice-damned rats of Lugbúrz. Then he looked around in suspicion, realizing that he had run into a lot less resistance than expected.

“Where is Grishnákh?” he asked.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then a hideous, shivering cry could be heard – the final shriek of a dying Orc, if they had ever heard one. After that, everything fell in silence again – until someone began to screech.

“The prisoners! They’re gone!”

Uglúk dashed over to where he had left the prisoners to Bâshul’s care. To his utter dismay, the Halflings were indeed gone, and that useless female lay on the ground, dead. Killed by a dagger of Lugbúrz, by the design of it.

“That was Grishnákh.” Uglúk gritted his teeth. “That cursed rat’s stolen them away. And we can’t follow him and kill him.”

“No need for that,” said Azdreg. “The Whiteskins got him. That shriek before came from him. He’s been ridden down and killed by a spear, just outside our camp.”

“And the prisoners?” asked Uglúk darkly.

Azdreg shook his head. “Gone without a trace. Perhaps the Whiteskins took them; not that they’d be of any use.”

No, Uglúk thought, the horsemen would not know what to look for. No-one but the wizard himself knew. And Uglúk, of course, who was privy to more of Saruman’s secrets than the wizard would guess. Saruman was cunning, but not as cunning as he thought of himself. Not cunning enough to hide his secrets from an inquisitive Uruk-hai.

Alas, that knowledge helped him little right now, as he had just managed to lose the very thing the wizard had been looking for. Not to mention that they were still sitting in a trap. In a trap, from which there was no escape without help from outside.

New yells and screeches, coming from the right, outside the circle of the Whiteskins’ watch-fires, from the direction of the ominous forest woke him from his dark ponderings. Thraknazh came running back again, his yellow eyes gleaming in excitement.

“Mauhúr has arrived,” he reported, “and is attacking the Whiteskins. This is our chance to break out! Now!”

Uglúk nodded his agreement and shouted a few well-placed orders, but he was trying in vain. Everyone grabbed their weapons and run off to launch an attack, disorganized and with the utter lack of any discipline. With the exception of the well-trained score of the Uruk-hai, of course. Or what was left of it anyhow.

Still, for a short time, Uglúk actually hoped that they would be able to break through. Until he heard the sound of galloping hooves, that is. Apparently, the Whiteskins were not willing to let anyone get off, and for that, they even risked to be shot by Orc-arrows.

“They are drawing their ring closer around us,” said Azdreg. “We won’t be able to get away… the cursed horses are swift. Even swifter than we are.”

“What about Mauhúr and his lads?” asked Uglúk, with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

“A company of the horsemen rode off to fight them,” Azdreg said grimly. “I don’t like this, Uglúk.”

“Neither do I,” replied Uglúk, “but it seems attack is not an option right now. How many of Grishnákh’s apes got slain just now?”

“A dozen or so. And if the Sun rises…” Azdreg trailed off. There was no need to say aught else. They both knew what to expect. The night was already old. It would not last much longer. In the still unclouded East the sky was beginning to grow pale.

“’Tis very quiet,” growled Uglúk after a time. “I can’t hear the fighting anymore.”

“Me neither,” replied Thraknazh glumly. “It seems that Mauhúr and his lads have been killed or driven off.”

“He wouldn’t back off,” Uglúk closed his eyes briefly; the loss of such a valuable ally was devastating. “If the fighting has ceased, they are dead.”

“And so will be we, in a very short time,” said Thraknazh. “When the Sun rises, the maggots and the rats from Lugbúrz will be useless. And there aren’t enough of us left to fight off such a large company of horsemen. You know that as well as I do.”

“Of course,” Uglúk nodded. “But we’ll give them a good fight. We must keep them busy here as long as we can, kill as many as we can. The females need a good head start. They’re all that will remain of us after this day. Them, and the cubs in their bellies.”

In that very moment, over the Great River, and the Brown Lands, the red glow of dawn rose, like the fire of the deep furnaces. All around the knoll, the great horns of the horsemen sounded, one answering the other, and there was sudden movement beyond the watch-fires. Warhorses were neighing, and suddenly the horsemen burst into song in their own language – a slowly rolling tongue that the lesser Orcs did not understand, but the Uruk-hai, schooled by the White Wizard and taught anything that might be of use, did.

_Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising  
I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.  
To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:  
Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!_

Thusly the horsemen sang, as their forefathers had sung this same song for years upon years, way back when they had still dwelt at the sources of Anduin, in the far North.(1) For they were a fell people, and the battle rage burned hotly in their hearts, as it had burned in their ancestors from the very beginning of their kind.

Unlikely as it seemed, the fire of the song touched something deep inside Uglúk. He came from a bloodline that had been mixed with that of the horsemen, when Saruman had begun breeding the new generations of Uruk-hai. He felt no more kinship with the filthy Whiteskins than he felt with the cursed Elves – and yet, strangely enough, the rakish singing of his enemies gave him some much-needed strength. It filled him with a fire he thought already quenched.

The Sun crept higher upon the eastern sky, its beams stretched high above their heads like an arc of fire – like a bad omen, foretelling their fate. The song died down, and a great voice rose among the horsemen, crying in their ancient tongue:

  
_Arísath nú Rídend míne!  
Théodnes thegnas thindath on orde!  
Féond oferswithath! Forth Eorlingas!_ (2)

With that final, resounding cry, the horsemen charged from the East. The light of the red dawn gleamed on mail-shirts and spear-heads like freshly spilt blood. Uglúk took a deep breath, his broad chest filling with anticipation. If this was to be his last battle, he was ready to go down fighting – and taking as many of the Whiteskins with him as possible.

The mountain-maggots and the rats of Lugbúrz lost it in the very moment of the attack, of course, shooting all the arrows that remained to them randomly. And not hitting anything but the mail-shirts of the Men, from which every arrow sent from such great distance slid down harmlessly.

The bowmen of the Uruk-hai, led by Ashluk, the best archer among them, waited for orders, their great bows drawn, their arrows nocked.

“Kill their horses first,” ordered Uglúk, “so that they won’t be able to trample us down. In hand-to-hand combat it’s us who have the advantage. We are stronger than them.”

The bowmen nodded and released their iron-headed arrows. Several of the magnificent horses were hit; they reared and fell, rolling in the dirt and throwing down their riders. Some of the others could not stop in time and stumbled over them, breaking their legs.(3) A few of the horsemen fell from the saddle, the arrows of the sharp-eyed Ashluk finding their way between mail-shirt and helmet and piercing the Men’s throats unerringly.

And yet their line held on up the hill and over it, both horses and riders unwavering, and then they wheeled round and charged again. Most of the Northerners and the cowards of Lugbúrz – those who were still alive, that is – broke from the sight of a living wall of armour and spearheads moving against them. They made the futile attempt to flee, running off into different directions, but mostly away from the forest where Mauhúr and his troops had found their deaths. The horsemen, though, seemed determined not to let them escape. They broke their line, always three or four of them following one of the fleeing Orc groups, pursuing them one by one to their death.

“Now might be our time,” said Uglúk. “There are only three of them in our way. Move, ‘til the rest it busy with hunting down the maggots!”

The diminished group of Uruk-hai had held together in a black wedge, driving forward resolutely in the direction of the forest all the time. Now they leaped into swift speed, straight up the slope, and charged towards the watchers. The Whiteskins had keen eyes and good ears, but the Uruk-hai moved with the shadows still lying low near the ground, and when one of the watchers spied their movement, it was already too late for them.

“Gárulf! Watch out!” the young Man cried out, ere Ashluk’s arrow pierced his throat.

The Man in the middle hesitated no longer than a heartbeat, but that was enough for Grothrásh to ram the horse of the third watcher on the right with the full weight of his huge bulk. The horse – a smaller and lighter one than the warhorses of the Mark usually were, though apparently one of fiery nature – could not withstand the impact. He stumbled and reared, and threw off his very young rider. The Slaughterer leaped over the horse and cleaved the head of the young Man in two, bone and helm at once.

The Man named Gárulf, desperate to save his young comrade and maddened by his own failure, urged his warhorse forward with a shrill cry. “Forth, Hasufel!”

As if understanding the words, the great, dark-grey beast reared up onto his hind legs with a loud neigh and then brought his front down on the Uruk-hai before him. The hooves hit Grothrásh square on the chest, breaking his ribcage with a sickening _crush_. The Man leaned over the horse’s neck, turning his spear around so that the head pointed downwards, and grabbing the hilt with both hands, he rammed it down. There was a short, harsh scream, and in the next moment the loyal, slow-witted Slaughterer was dead.

Uglúk howled in rage. First Mauhúr and all his lads, and now Grothrásh, his closest ally and supporter… even if he managed, by some miracle, to escape, he could never re-gain his former powers. But now was not the time to mourn about lost rank among his people. Now they had one simple goal left: to survive. Snatching the spear of a fallen rider, Uglúk grabbed it and rammed into the chest of the Man named Gárulf, piercing chain mail and flesh and bone with such brutal force that the spearhead came out again on the rider’s back.

The Man fell from the saddle, and the horse, frightened by the smell of his master’s blood, fled screaming, the smaller, lighter mount in his trail. Uglúk looked down at the broken body before his feet and watched the Man die.

It felt unspeakably good.

But the younger Man’s outcry had already alerted the other Whiteskins that something was amiss on the outskirts of the forest. The hooves of the huge beasts were thundering around them already, and soon they were overtaken and brought at bay at the very edge of the dark, looming woods that could have been their only way of escape.

But there was no escaping for them anymore. All but three of his lads were already dead, mayhap a handful more had managed to slip through the circle of the riders and were now trying desperately to run away. He could recognize the trusted Azdreg among them, and also Thraknazh, the whip-master. The urge of survival was finally overwhelming even the deep-rooted loyalty to their chieftain.

Uglúk blamed them not. He would have done the same, if he had been in their place. And if he could keep the Whiteskins occupied just a little longer, if he could give them a head start, mayhap they could make it.

Flanked by Krumghash and Skarburz, the only ones left to watch his back, Uglúk turned to face his enemies, seeking for a way to delay the inevitable, to buy his escaped lads more time to flee. Counting on the Whiteskins’ weird sense for what they called ‘honour’ could work, he decided.

Looking over the disturbingly similar-looking Men – tall, long-limbed and yellow haired, every single one of them, with ice-blue eyes and pale faces, in burnished shirts of mail and light helms upon their long braids – he picked out one of hem whom he thought to be the leader. The Man was taller than all the others, and a white horsetail flowed from his golden helmet as a crest.

“You,” he growled in the tongue of the horsemen, “are you the leader of this band of rebels and murderers?”

As surprised as the Men were to hear their own tongue from the mouth of someone whom they considered an evil, ugly monster, their surprise quickly turned to anger about the wording of the question. But their supposed leader silenced them with a raised hand.

“What if I am?” he asked, and Uglúk recognized the strong, clear voice that had given the great battle cry at the beginning of the charge. He was a magnificent male example as Men go – almost as broadly built as an Uruk-hai, and even a little taller.

“Then I challenge you to a sword to sword combat,” said Uglúk. “Just you and me – or have you not the honour your people boast about so much to fight the chief of your enemies?”

Using the stilted speech of the Whiteskins was hard for Uglúk, used to the harsh, clipped style of his own race. But he could do it, if he had to, and this was the only way to make the Man listen. It was not so that he would have the chance to worry about possible headaches later.

“Why would I wish to do so?” the Man asked. “We have beaten you already, and we can shoot all three of you comfortably. Why waste my time and take any risks?”

Uglúk shrugged his massive shoulders. “I thought the horsemen of the Mark were supposed to accept a honourable challenge.”

At that, the Men laughed and gave him disgusted looks.

“You are not willing to accept a challenge from this… this foul creature, my Lord, do you?” asked the rider on the leader’s right. “It only wants to buy some time for its band – which we should be pursuing right now.”

“That might be,” said the leader, “but a challenge is a matter of honour, Éothain. It cannot go unanswered.”

“Honour,” the other Man snorted, his eyes glowing with hatred. “Orcs have no honour, my Lord! They are rabble, vermin, naught else.”

“Mayhap they truly have not,” replied the leader. “But _we_ do – or, at the very least, we _should_ have. Even towards an Orc.”

“I’m not just any Orc,” snorted Uglúk, feeling righteously insulted. “I’m Uglúk, chieftain of the fighting Uruk-hai, Captain of Isengard and First Warrior of the White Hand.”

“You have grand titles in these days,” the leader of Men shook his head in amusement. “Very well then, be it as you wish. I, Éomer Éomundsson, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, accept your challenge.”

With that, he dismounted, throwing the bridle of his great war stallion to the other Man, namely Éothain, and drew his sword.

Uglúk was a little stunned. He had not expected to face a kinsman of the old King himself. Besides, the name of Éomer was known in Isengard, and he was said to be a fierce warrior. But Uglúk had no worries for his own fate. He knew that neither he nor Krumghash or Skarburz would leave this place alive. The Men would not let escape them, even if he could best Éomer. All he could do was to buy some time for the others.

“We should capture them, my Lord,” said the Man named Éothain. “They must know things about Isengard and its strength that could be valuable for us.”

“Nay,” replied Éomer, “they would not tell us a thing. They might not have honour as we understand it, but they know obligation, I deem. Or if not, the wizard surely has cast a spell upon them.” He turned to Uglúk, his long sword gleaming. “Well then, Uglúk – let us bring this to an end.”

Uglúk grabbed his broadsword and leaped into attack without any forewarning. If he wanted to stretch out this combat as long as possible, he needed to take the lead. This served to his advantage, as he kept gaining ground on the Man, and drove him half round the open space near the woods, on which they fought. The circle of horsemen did not move, watching the perimeter and their prey, so that Krumghash and Skarburz would not escape.

Both Uglúk and Éomer strove to fight with their backs towards the raising Sun, so that it might shine full in the face of the other; and so several quick wheels were made for the purpose of gaining this position. Uglúk had the advantage of greater strength and longer arms, but the Man was strong and skilled, too, and a great deal faster. He began to tire, and the dreadful feeling of approaching death grew in the pit of his stomach again.

The fight was long and merciless. The desperate thrusts that were frequently aimed on both sides would have revealed for even an untrained audience that they wanted but one thing: to kill each other. At first the riders tried to urge Éomer on, but one by one, they fell into silence, mesmerized by the grim and determined struggle before their eyes. Uglúk felt his sword arm getting heavier and heavier, and he knew it would be over, soon.

Éomer made a lunge at him, all of a sudden; he barely managed to raise his sword in time to counter the attack. He leaped back, for the first time since they had begun, to gain some breathing space. But at this moment, his foot slipped on the blood-stained grass, and he stumbled forward towards the Man, who swiftly met his chest in the fall with the point of his sword and ran it through the body. It happened so quickly that it barely hurt at all.

Uglúk made one feeble, convulsive struggle, as if attempting to rise, but he knew it was over. He fell back onto the grass, now slick from his own blood that was pouring from his wounds in abundance, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered what might happen to Orcs after they died.

He felt a cool touch upon his brow and, opening his bleary eyes for one last time, he saw the face of his enemy leaning over him.

“You fought well,” the Man said with something akin respect in his voice. Uglúk let his leaden eyelids fall shut again.

“Finish it,” he growled, not wanting to see how his last two lads, the only ones who had stood on his side ‘til the end, were slain.

He thought of Lugdush and the cub in her belly that would, perhaps, continue his bloodline; of Krumkû and the other two females that were, hopefully, in safe distance by now. And of Azdreg and Thraknazh, who might escape, after all, and protect the females and the cubs, once they were born.

He did not even feel the second strike that freed him from his broken shell.

_Then when they had laid their fallen comrades in a mound and had sung their praises, the Riders made a great fire and scattered the ashes of their enemies. So ended the raid, and no news of it came ever back either to Mordor or to Isengard; but the smoke of the burning rose high to heaven and was seen by many watchful eyes._

_(The Two Towers, Chapter 3: The Uruk-hai, p. 73)_

~ The End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I simply assumed that Éomer’s song on the Pelennor Fields was not an improvisation but an old battle tune.  
> (2) Quoted from HoME 8 – The War of the Ring, p. 389. An early version of Théoden’s battle cry. As above, I assumed it was a time-honoured one, used by all the King’s knights.  
> (3) Éomer tells Aragorn in “The Riders of Rohan” (TTT), that they lost fifteen men and twenty horses in this battle. It makes sense for the Orcs, IMO, to try and get rid of such a serious disadvantage.


End file.
